Misty (7 page)

“You're right; but you're different from the others, Anya. I can feel it; I know you're the one.”

Anya shook her head. “You don't even know me.”

Sergio placed a hand in the center of his chest. “The heart knows what it wants, and my heart is telling me that I should be your man,” he responded as he headed for the door.

Sergio exited, leaving Anya in deep contemplation. When she had begun her search for her father, having a man like Sergio, who was worldly wise and who also possessed unlimited resources would have been a godsend. But at this stage of her life, she didn't need a man who couldn't move without henchmen and bodyguards clustered around him. Besides, until she truly got over Brick, there wasn't room in her heart for anyone else.

B
y the time Johanna McBride found the time to take a break from her nursing duties and bring Misty a copy of the
Philadelphia Daily News,
Misty had already found the article online and had posted it on her website.

Misty glanced up from the screen of the iPad when Johanna proudly set the newspaper in front of her. “I already read the article online,” she muttered, ignoring the hard copy.

“Sharon did a great job of portraying what your life has been like since the tragedy,” Johanna said, nodding her head briskly as she waited for Misty to agree with her.

“The way she told my story was all right, but apparently it's not compelling enough to tug at the public's heartstrings,” Misty commented without looking away from the iPad screen.

“What makes you say that?” Johanna craned her neck toward the screen that Misty was riveted to.

“The contributions have started trickling in, but these cheap Philly bastards don't seem to want to come up off of more than twenty-five dollars a pop. So far, I only have three hundred and seventy-five dollars in donations. At this slow rate, I'll be old and wrinkled before I get enough to pay for my surgery.”

“The paper's only been out for a few hours; give it time. You have to be optimistic. Don't forget, before the big donors stepped
in, President Obama financed his campaign with small donations,” Johanna said, smiling broadly.

Unimpressed, Misty rolled her eyes. “Did you want something else, Johanna?”

Johanna looked momentarily perplexed by Misty's terse attitude. Then her expression brightened. “Oh, there is something I wanted to tell you. Your prediction is so accurate, it's downright uncanny. Do you recall that I told you I didn't have an outfit like the one you said I was wearing in your vision?” The nurse took a deep breath. “You're not going to believe this…” Her eyes widened in excitement. “Drum roll, please…” She imitated beating a drum and Misty could have vomited at the foolish display of joyfulness. It didn't help her disposition that Johanna's protrusive front teeth were hanging over her bottom lip as she beat the invisible drum.

I know I look like a freak, but at least I'm trying to do something about it. This dippy bitch should have invested in some braces a long time ago.

“Would you believe that my sister, who's been packing on the pounds in the last few years, but refused to get rid of her “skinny clothes”—

Misty interrupted with a sigh of exasperation when Johanna made air quotes around skinny clothes.
I wish this nuisance of a woman would get to the point. Ain't nobody ask this ho to come in here and start pantomiming drum rolls and making quotes in the air and shit. If she doesn't hurry up and say what the fuck is on her mind and let me get back to counting my donations, I might have to report her to her supervisor. She thinks she's slick, but I'm not stupid; I know this ho is angling for another free reading, but it's not gonna happen.

“My sister finally broke down and packed up the wardrobe she can no longer fit,” Johanna continued. “Well, you wouldn't believe
what I discovered among her discarded clothing…” She paused and folded her arms dramatically and bucked her eyes, as if Misty was hanging on to her every word and waiting in expectation.

At this point in the nurse's long-winded, boring story, had Misty not been paralyzed, she would have leapt out of her bed and commenced to strangling the life out of her.

“Folded up as nice as you please, was a pair of white slacks and the striped orange and white top you said I was wearing when you had the vision.”

Misty gave the nurse a blank look while thinking,
Ohmigod; I hate you so much!
“And…,” she finally said with impatience evident in her tone.

“And I'm going to be wearing that ensemble tonight when the realtor hands me the keys to my new summer home.” Excited, Johanna began clapping merrily and beaming at Misty, expecting her to share her joy.

Misty had had quite enough. She imagined clunking the nurse in the head with the iPad but she didn't want to damage the device that was her only connection to the cheap-ass donors of the Philadelphia area.

“I need my rest, Johanna. Would you please close my door on your way out?”

Wondering what she'd said to upset Misty, Johanna slinked away with her tail between her legs. Misty immediately returned her gaze to the iPad screen and scowled at the latest meager donation that had come in while she'd been distracted by the nurse's stupid story. She'd already told the heifer that she had on white pants and a damn striped top, so why did she feel the need to waste Misty's time telling her something she already knew?

If that bucktooth bitch thought she was going to keep coming
in Misty's room, gawking at her and grinning, she was sadly mistaken. She was trying to get way too familiar for Misty's taste. Bitch was starting to act like a stalker, and if she didn't calm herself down and stay in her place as a professional caregiver, Misty would have no choice but to lodge a complaint against her.

The small donations were coming in dribs and drabs and making Misty so disappointed and irritable. She powered off the tablet and closed her eyes, planning to nap for about a half-hour.

•  •  •

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Brick said.

Misty's lashes fluttered as she blinked into consciousness. “Hi, Brick,” she said, smiling. A glance at the clock indicated she'd been asleep for several hours, much longer than she'd intended.

Brick had a copy of the newspaper tucked under his arm. “I brought you the paper, but I see someone already beat me to it. I read the article and I think the writer did a good job of telling your story and showing how much of a fighter you are. She sort of makes the reader admire you instead of feeling sorry for you. And since I know you don't want to be pitied, I give her props for that.”

“Maybe the way she wrote the story is the reason the money is funny,” Misty said with her brows wrinkled together. “I only had about four hundred dollars when I drifted to sleep, and to be honest, I expected so much more.”

“Don't let that get you down. You're gonna get that surgery if I have to stick up a bank, so stop worrying about it.”

Misty laughed.

“I'm dead serious.”

“I know you are, but I don't want you to attempt something like that. You're the one person in this world who truly cares about
me, Brick, and I wouldn't dream of allowing you to jeopardize your freedom. I'll think of something. You know, me, Brick; I'm always scheming and I'm going to figure out a way to get the money I need. If this article doesn't do the trick, then I'll get in touch with someone from a national newspaper—like the
National Enquirer
—a paper with a much broader audience.”

“I have some good news for you.”

Misty looked at him curiously.

“We have a place. It's wheelchair accessible, high ceilings, and a nice view.”

“I'm not going to need a wheelchair for long,” Misty said.

“What are you talking about?”

“While I was asleep, I dreamed I had the ability to heal people. And if I can heal others, I think I should start with myself.”

“It was only a dream; I think you're starting to take this supernatural stuff too far. Why don't you focus on getting well enough for the doctor to release you?”

“I really believe I can heal if I tried. My hands are tingling right now, letting me know there's healing power in my hands.”

“Are you sure everything's all right in there?” Brick leaned over and gently tapped Misty's forehead.

“How long have you known me?”

“Forever.”

“And you've never known me to talk shit I couldn't back up, have you?”

“Making a big deal out of something you dreamed isn't like you. You've changed since you came out of the coma.”

“I wouldn't say I've
changed.
I've been enhanced is a more accurate statement,” Misty countered.

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then Brick spoke.
“I have to go speak with the director of the Occupational Therapy department.”

“Why?”

“I have to set up an appointment for them to make a home visit at our new place.”

“I don't understand.”

“Before you're released, you're going to have to start having occupational therapy sessions.”

“Why do I need occupational therapy? I'm not looking for a job.”

“That's not what it means. The therapists can help you with your activities of daily living.”

“Such as?”

“I don't know much about it, but from what they told me, you're going to need adaptive equipment to be able to do simple stuff like comb your hair and feed yourself.”

Misty grimaced. “Oh, I know what you're talking about. Those crazy-looking, scoop bowls and Sippy cups…spoons with long attachments. Man, I don't want that handicapped-looking stuff in our new crib. No thanks.”

“It's for your own good, Misty. I don't want you lying around in bed depressed like you were while you were living at your mom's crib. It's possible for you to lead a near-normal life if you make some effort.”

“I intend to lead a perfectly normal life, but I don't want to come home to an apartment that's filled with guardrails and all kinds of special needs equipment. Seeing that stuff will depress the hell out of me.”

“But that's what you need to be independent.”

“No, I don't,” Misty snapped.

“Stop being so stubborn. I have to go talk to those people about
the home visit. When I get back, I hope you've had an attitude adjustment. I'm trying to help you, not hurt you.”

“I'm sorry, Brick. I didn't mean to raise my voice at you. I get frustrated trying to come to terms with the fact that I'm doomed to be an invalid for the rest of my life.”

“But, babe, there's so much technology and modern stuff available, you don't have to think of yourself as being doomed. Look on the bright side…can you do that for me?”

“I'll try.”

A
s soon as Brick exited the room, Misty turned on the iPad to check the status of the donations. To her surprise, she had received a thousand dollars from a single donor and quite a few small donations. But even with the large donation, the sum total was still less than impressive. Bypassing the names of the numerous contributors of small donations, she clicked on the big donor's name: Gavin Stallings. She sent him an email with a thank you note. Almost instantaneously, she received an email from him that listed his phone number and the message:
Call me to discuss your surgical procedure.

Was Gavin Stallings a plastic surgeon? Misty wondered with delight. Facing reality, she decided he was probably some lonely wacko who wanted to gab on the phone, talking about nothing. She was glad she'd come to her senses before she'd asked a nurse to help her make a call. She'd be furious if she had to listen to Gavin Stallings going on and on about how moved he was by her story. Fuck if she'd be a listening ear to some lonely fool. She had to figure out a way to get other generous people to come out of the woodwork and give money to her cause.